


All But Raise The Dead

by nastally



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Denial, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Masturbation, Self-Hatred, Tenth Doctor Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2020-08-17
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:22:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25945783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nastally/pseuds/nastally
Summary: How often can you bear to lose everything before you lose yourself, too?Surely, that was what had happened? He was finally, truly, losing his mind. That would explain – he thought as he walked up to the console – what he was going to do now.-*-Set shortly after LotTL.
Relationships: Tenth Doctor/The Master (Simm), The Doctor/The Master (Doctor Who)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 28





	All But Raise The Dead

**Author's Note:**

> I posted this on LiveJournal in 2007 and I don't want it to get lost forever, so I decided to upload it here. All hail the good old days of Ten/Simm. 😉

\- - - 

When the idea first entered his mind, the Doctor abruptly stepped away from the controls, left the console room and tried to get himself lost in the TARDIS for the better part of three days.

Now that he was alone, time didn't matter in the way that it did when he was bending the rhythm of his own existence to that of a human being.

He had human eternities at his disposal now to do nothing but wander around and think. For several weeks, he had done just that.

But how much thought was required to make a decision in favour of something which he instantly knew was a bad idea? A wrong idea, if ever he'd had one. And yet - it was as madly appealing as it was frightening.

Perhaps he wasn't thinking at all anymore.  
Just mentally preparing himself for it, gagging his voice of reason with his grief and drowning all protest in the silence that prevailed in his mind. Because there was no choice, not with all hope lost, again, and with nowhere to hide from the emptiness. It was there, minute after minute, hour after hour. There was no choice, because there was no escape.

When he eventually returned to the control room, it was with the air of a man walking towards his own execution.

How often can you bear to lose everything before you lose yourself, too?

Surely, that was what had happened? He was finally, truly, losing his mind. That would explain – he thought, as he walked up to the console – what he was going to do now.

In his head he had long since worked out how to do it. All that was left, was for his hands to do the work.

The TARDIS had a long list of default security and emergency protocols.  
The Type 40 operated these by generating a hologram of the pilot.  
The hologram was automatically updated when a regeneration occurred.

Or – (and this was what had suddenly struck him the other day) – the moment another Time Lord who wished to pilot the ship formed a telepathic link with her.

He watched his fingers fly over the keyboard, checking the monitor every now and again.  
The data was all there, and ridiculously easy to retrieve. He almost couldn't believe how this hadn't occurred to him before.

The Doctor straightened, his fingers tangling in his hair while his gaze lingered on a switch. That was it. Simple. Just one switch left to flick.

/That/ he thought /or you could do the sensible thing and delete it. You know what you should do. For your own sanity's sake. Just delete it./

When had he fallen out of the habit of talking to himself aloud? Probably during the year that never was. And without Martha, the TARDIS had become a dead quiet place.

Silent and hollow.

He reached forward and flicked the switch with his index finger.

(That it could be so simple to raise the dead.)

A hologram flickered into existence on the other side of the console room. For a while, he just stared at it, not even blinking.

It wasn't nearly as agonising to behold as he had expected it to be.

He felt cheated.

But then, of course, it was merely an image. A hologram, yes, but just a faded, unsteady likeness nonetheless, immobile and lifeless. There he stood, the latest incarnation of the Master, radiating a flickering blueish light, looking straight through him with vacant eyes.

The Doctor thought for a long moment, still not taking his eyes off it. The longer he looked, the more he was overcome by the unpleasant sensation of staring into the eyes of a corpse, and a chilling shiver ran down his spine.

/What do you think you're doing?/ He lowered his eyes to the monitor again. /What are you trying to achieve? Switch it off, now. You're out of your mind./

And yet there was the promise of something, something other than grief, guilt and loneliness in the pale flickering light illuminating the room.

/Maybe if I- No. You can't. Just stop this, now./

But his fingers weren't listening. Almost of their own accord, they got to work again on the controls to implement a new idea. The hologram disappeared, then reappeared right beside him. He didn't look up at it. Instead he stepped back from the console and closed his eyes, mentally reaching out to the TARDIS. The last thing he required for this to work, it would be easiest to ask of her that way.  
The sentient ship did not protest. Fortunately, she was not capable of judging the sanity of his actions – or lack thereof.

The Doctor slowly opened his eyes again and turned to the hologram. With about half a second's delay, the hologram turned to face him.

He felt his hearts jump. It was working.

Raising his eyebrows, he took a deep breath and watched the holographic Master do the same. It looked- It almost looked like-  
He backed away slightly – (as did the projection) – seeing his own sickened amazement on the other's face.

Even though the gestures were his own, only mirrored, and his facial expression didn't quite fit the Master, the difference was shocking.

Exhaling slowly – through parted lips, he saw – he stepped closer again. The Master blinked, narrowing his eyes. Then swallowed, lips uncertainly moving to form a word, but closing instead.

The Doctor didn't believe in ghosts, but he was standing in front of one now. The breathing, living ghost of the man who had bled to death in his arms and whose remains he had burned to ashes.

/This is ridiculous/ he thought, experimentally feeding the words into his telepathic link with the TARDIS.

"This is ridiculous." The holographic Master said. 

The Doctor bit his tongue. Even though the other's voice had sounded through a speaker, even though the intonation wasn't quite right, even though...

This was insane. Morbid and insane.

/Rassilon help me./ He squeezed his eyes shut and leaned onto the console, grabbing the edge tightly. /I'm trying to bring him back to life./

To his own surprise, it was a chuckle rather than a sob that came over his lips. A mirthless, pitying laugh that, when he heard it mirrored by the other's voice, seemed strangely befitting of the Master, albeit a hint too sentimental. Oh, he would be laughing at him. How he would be laughing now.  
The Doctor stilled and ran his hands over his face, not yet daring to open his eyes again.

/Pathetic/ He thought again, purposefully.

"Pathetic." He heard the Master's voice say, and felt a jab in his chest. /Yes./ If he hadn't known for sure that there was nothing more to it than a projector and his apparent failure to cope...

He looked up again, focusing on eyes so blatantly unreal and yet so lifelike. But maybe that was it. Maybe it was not madness after all that had driven him to this, just the need to- a need for-

"What?" The Master said and furrowed his eyebrows, looking back at him intently. Dear god, no, it was mad. Definitely mad and ten shades of wrong, but...

The Doctor swallowed and took a step to the right, then another, and slowly they began to circle each other. "What now, Doctor?"

Hold on. No, that didn't sound right.  
He tried again.

"Doctor?"

No. Different.

"Doctor."

No, again. Again.

How could it be that he couldn't recreate it, when he could still hear it in his mind, the other's voice calling his name, so clearly it sometimes made him pause and glance over his shoulder in the corridor, trying to glimpse something which he knew wasn't there.

"Doctor..." The hologram finally whispered, and he stopped – (they stopped) – staring at each other.

/Master.../ He found himself thinking in reply, and bit down on the inside of his cheek, hard. /You're talking to a dead man./

"Congratulations." The hologram said. "You've brought him back to life." The Master inclining his head, in a manner unlike his real self. "Was this your grand plan, Doctor? To see him again? To hear him say your name again? To hear somebody say your name again in the dead language only you now speak?"

/Yes. Yes and yes and yes. Can you blame me?/ He was quite aware that he was answering himself. Yet, looking at the hologram, he couldn't help but add, stupidly and angrily: /Why did you do it? Why did you have to go and die?/

Anger seemed a look much more at home on the Master's face.

"How do you expect me to answer that question? This isn't him. It's you!" But gradually, his expression became one of pity again, albeit too sympathetic to ring true. "What are you doing, Doctor? What are you doing, hm? He's gone and you're talking to yourself through his dead lips."

The Doctor shivered, shaking his head slightly. /Why didn't he let me help? I could have helped him, I could have-/

"Saved him? How?"

/I would have found a way./

"But it doesn't matter now, does it? It's too late. You didn't find a way. You couldn't save him." There was a horrible pause, because he knew exactly what was going to come next. It was his own mind speaking, after all. "You let him die just like you let them die when Gallifrey burned. All of them, Doctor, dying at your hands."

He closed his eyes, marvelling at the cruelty of his own consciousness.

"I know what you want." It said. The Master said. "You want absolution. His absolution. Isn't that right?" Never had this particular part of his mind been given a voice more fitting. "You wanted him to forgive you for what you've done. Because he was the only one left who could. Isn't that right, Doctor? You forgave him everything, but he never said it." A beat. "Not once."

The Doctor swallowed.

"Shall we try? Over these lips, Doctor, with his voice. Will that make you feel better? I... forgive..."

"No!" His eyes flew open as he said it, thought it and then heard it all at once. The Master looked mildly panicked for a moment, then exhaled, shook his head.

"No, of course not." And suddenly the look on his face was just right. Just right. Contempt. "You'll never forgive yourself. And now no one else ever will."

The Doctor didn't dare to move. Just for this moment, the image was so perfect it hurt. Instinctively, he took a step forward - (chasing after the illusion) - and quickly lowered his eyes when he found himself face to face with the Master. It was safer that way, too easy to spoil it if he recognised his own expression on that face. His gaze fell on the other's lips, and had the Master's breath been real, he thought, he would have probably felt it against his face.

A torrent of memories rushed through his head, memories of another flying ship. The other man sometimes whispering into his ear, cruel truths and casual lies. Sometimes singing and laughing, laughing without meaning it, while the Doctor sat in his wheelchair and he clung to his neck from behind, a grip too aggressive and tight to be an embrace. Sometimes staring into him, foreheads almost touching, as he searched for something that was never there. Hands tightening around the collar of his shirt, dangerous and hurtful hands, sometimes, but always – always touching.

"Ah." Said the Master's lips. "There's the other thing you want."

The Doctor swallowed and slowly lifted a hand, glancing over to the side where the Master's hand rose into the air as well.

(He suddenly, absurdly, remembered the beach in Norway. Remembered how much Rose had longed to touch him one last time.)

Their palms met – or would have, if they could. Flickering blue light against skin.

(He had felt so sorry for her then. Now he could only pity himself.)

He remembered that last time they had touched. Kneeling on the floor, cradling the Master's body, feeling the presence of his mind slowly ebb away and trying to make it all undone by sheer force of will. Refusing to let go.

But there was nothing he could do.

His fingers closed around nothing, and he turned his head away.

"This is what you miss the most."

/For one year, I was not alone. One year./

"What you long for the most."

/I know you felt it, too./ The Doctor lifted his eyes to the hologram's lips again. /Sometimes we spoke. Really, properly. And it was there, in your eyes. I could see it. Sometimes you realised, Master, you remembered./

"Is this what you want?"

/Rassilon help me./ They were so close now, their lips could have been brushing. /I'm so alone./

"Is this what you want? Doctor?"

/Yes./

"The touch of another Gallifreyan mind."

/Yes./

"The touch of another hand as cool as your own."

/Yes./ He paused. /No. Not just any other. Yours. But you're not here./

He drew a shuddering breath, taking a small step back to meet the Master's unreal gaze again. Only this time he found something there that didn't shatter the illusion at all, but caused his heart rate to quicken.

Longing. Desperate longing for him, the oldest friend, the only other one left now, the one who could understand and forgive.

('It can't end like this.')

The Doctor blinked rapidly to fight the burning sensation in his eyes. The voice of reason in his mind reminded him that this was only a reflection, but the better part of him refused to listen. With dazed fascination, he watched as the Master lifted his hand and placed it between his hearts. A touch he could not feel, while his own hand reached into nothing again.  
Nevertheless, he placed his palm over the ghostly hand on his chest and watched the Master do the same in return, trying to make himself at least imagine the feel of it. But with all the wishful thinking in the world...

/You win. I've never felt more alone. Was it worth it? I wonder./

He shook his head ever so slightly, helplessly staring back at himself in the other's eyes as they lowered their outstretched arms, his other hand still clutching his own chest.

He was dying to be touched. That was the simple truth of it. Dying to forget the loneliness, fill the emptiness, just for a fraction of the time he still had left in this universe.

His fingers spread out across his chest, pressing closer until he could feel his own heartbeat.

Ba-da-dum-da. Ba-da-dum-da.

The Master's fingers, tapping a rhythm against his temple one night. 'Can't you hear it, Doctor? Can't you hear it?' In the end, he wanted to. But he never could. But not long now, and he thought he might.

Just one moment. Was this too much to ask, in the face of hundreds of years on his own, still to come?

Hesitantly but steadily, his hand slid down over the buttons of his jacket, down across his stomach. (Touch. Forget.) Something dark and desirous stirred inside him.

"What, Doctor? What are you going to do?"

/Whatever it takes./ He hesitated again, hearts pounding against his ribcage, then made a decision. /I don't care. I just want a moment... a moment's peace of mind./

Exhaling slowly, he lowered his eyes.

The Master's hand lingered just below his waistline, fingers flexing, and eventually slid down to his crotch. The Doctor sighed, feeling his cheeks flush as he stroked himself through the fabric of his trousers, watching the other do the same. His body responded even more readily than he had anticipated.

/Rassilon help me.../

He swallowed and glanced up at the other's face again. The Master's lips were parted, head tilted back slightly, eyes becoming heavy-lidded. Now that expression... suited him, the Doctor decided and felt a shiver run down his spine. Not an pleasant one, this time.

"You sick, lonely bastard." The Master breathed, and he had to grip the console again, clenching his teeth. /Yes./ Yes, he clearly was, because hearing that out of the Master's mouth was having decidedly too much of an effect on him to claim that it wasn't true.  
He was also shamefully aware that a part of his mind was considering the limitations of a hologram in a different light now.

Swallowing down pride and embarrassment, he tore his gaze away and turned to the controls, trying to summon a clear thought through the sudden haziness in his head. He squeezed his eyes tight shut for a moment, then opened them again and quickly hit a sequence of keys on the keyboard. Then another.

/This should do it./

When he took a few steps back this time, the hologram didn't move. The image only rotated slightly, always facing him, always watching him, that slack look of craving captured on his face. The Doctor beheld his creation breathlessly, willing himself to forget that the other's chest, rising and falling, and even the slight quiver of his lower lip, was only his own reflection from moments ago caught in a loop.

The most disturbing thing was that he couldn't feel the Master's presence - (how should he?) - and all the more overwhelming was the desire to step forward and touch him. If only it were possible. All he had was the image and his own hands, fumbling with the buttons of his jacket now, then the fastening of his trousers. Rassilon help him, he was really doing this.

"Master." He whispered out loud, because now he could, and then made the other say his name again. Say it just right.

"Doctor..."

It raised the tiny hairs on the back of his neck. This was too (un)real. He wanted to weep. But another urge was stronger. The back of his knees hit the edge of the pilot seat and he slumped down on it, unceremoniously freeing his cock from his trousers.

"Doctor."

/Oh god.../ A small, guttural noise escaped his lips when his fingers closed around it.

Hearts beating up to his throat so that he could barely breathe, the Doctor lifted his eyes to the eerily lifelike image of the Master again, standing over him, watching him. That very realisation sent another hot rush of blood to his groin.

"Look at you." The voice in his mind said, the Master said. "So desperate."

The Doctor gave a dry sob, eyes falling closed as he leaned his head against the backrest and began to stroke himself, slowly and purposefully.

"Ah..." He could see the Master's face clearly now, not the hologram, but his real face, the way no one else could perceive it. All through his lives, the essence that always remained unmistakably him. The glint of something so familiar in his eyes, the same now as it had been almost a thousand years ago.  
A thousand years ago...

"We don't forget." The Master's voice whispered, tapping right into memories almost as old as himself, some of which made him gasp with surprise because it had been so long since he had last remembered. Carefree days spent under the orange skies, vows of eternal loyalty and friendship, laughter and mischief, boundless trust and so much curiosity. And never being alone...

/But it wouldn't be like this now, would it?/

He opened his eyes, staring at the ghostly appearance of the Master, the image of the mischievously smiling boy fading against the cold fire in the eyes of the raging maniac he had become.

/It wouldn't be like this at all./

A much more recent memory flickered through his mind, lacking the golden glow of sweetly innocent times long past, but vivid with clear detail and emotion instead.

"The day on the Valiant, when he nearly gave in. You remember." The Master said. "When he was so tempted to return your body to its youthful form. You still remember what he said." A pause. The Doctor gasped softly, his erection twitching in his hand. "I can think of so many ways to break you."

/Yes./

"And you know what he meant by that." It wasn't a question.

/Yes./

"You know what he wanted to do."

"Yes." He moaned, closing his eyes again as he continued to stroke himself, faster, while his other hand slid down to his balls. For a few moments no sound but the hum of the TARDIS and his own irregular breathing filled the room.

"You wish he had."

The Doctor groaned through clenched teeth. Thinking this and hearing it spoken aloud - by the Master's voice - were two different things entirely. Memory started to mingle with fantasy, creating images that made his body tingle with sickening pleasure. "No." He heard himself whisper, in a ridiculously weak attempt to lie to himself even when he was painfully hard in his hand. What was the point? He swore quietly under his breath, cursing the truth. "Yes, yes..."

"It's as good as forgiveness. Atonement for your sins." The Master's voice said, and the Doctor looked up at him again, eyes dark and haunted. His body trembling with every breath. "Punishment."

"Mmngh..." He bit down hard on his lower lip, hips jerking slightly, involuntarily, as he gripped himself tighter.

"He would have pushed you down on the table, face down."

The Doctor whimpered and covered his face with his arm. He couldn't bear to look at the reality of this anymore.

"You would have fought him until there was nothing you could do, telling him to stop, to think. But part of you would have wanted him to go on, do it. Do it. You deserve it, and he knows."

But reality didn't matter, didn't apply to the fantasy that was burning on the inside of his eyelids, cruel and painful and perfect. His fingers were spreading drops of precome from the tip to the base of his cock.

"Your hands tied behind your back, your face pressed against the wood. Everybody watching. Yes. He would have made everybody watch while he-"

/No./ Not enough of his mind was left to protest when he made a sudden decision. /Play pretend, do it properly, you might as well. I might as well... oh please, I'm sorry, forgive me... forgive me.../

"-while I fuck you raw." The Master told him with lewd pleasure, and the Doctor thought he might just come on the spot. "While I slam you against the table with every thrust."

He made a strangled noise between a moan and a sob, and hastily spit on the fingers of his free hand.

"Until you beg."

Two of them found the tight opening of his arse and drew a wet circle before pushing inside, none too gently. It hurt just right, sending a wave of excitement through him that mingled with the pain and forced a groan from his throat.

"Until you scream my name. Master! Yes! Oh, just like that, yes-"

He was losing control of his thoughts now, didn't know what he was thinking or saying anymore, it was all tangled.  
But it didn't matter. Nothing mattered.

At last, nothing mattered.

His hips bucked up to meet his fingers, eyes squeezed tight shut, heels digging into the floor. The air was filled with the sound of his whimpers and the wet noise his hand made on his slick cock, and he wasn't there at all.  
Not in the TARDIS, not alone, not the murderer of his own kind. Everything reduced itself to this one point in time. He wanted to fade into the fantasy where nothing mattered except bitter-sweet pain and carnal pleasure – his chosen heaven, his personal hell.

In his mind, the Master was laughing while everything burned and everyone screamed and there was no love in their embrace as they moved against each other – (always against, never with) – but they were complete, while the universe was falling apart and that was enough.

He curled his fingers, cried out a name, or a curse, or a prayer to a deity he didn't believe in, he wasn't sure. For a fraction of time, there was only bliss.

It seemed to last forever. It barely lasted at all.

Even as his senses slowly began to return, reality came crashing down on him like a mass of dark, muddy waters.

Trembling and sweaty, the Doctor opened his eyes and instantly felt his hearts sink. Doing his best not to look at the ghostly appearance before him, he pulled up his trousers hurriedly and stumbled to the console, passing right through a part of the hologram. Morbid illusion.  
His legs wouldn't quite carry him and so he sank to his knees in front of the controls even as he switched off the projector. The usual semi-darkness of the control room enshrouded him.

He leaned his forehead against the edge of the console and closed his eyes, faintly aware that his face wasn't only moist with sweat but drying tears. His body was still tingling all over. Images were dancing in front of his inner eye. Impossibly thrilling images only minutes ago, but now they were making him feel sick. And worse yet, they wouldn't fade, so he opened his eyes again, lifted his gaze to the screen. Without thinking, his hands lamely punched in a new command.

'Data deleted.'

He lowered his head back onto the console, looking down at himself. His mouth felt dry, trousers still half undone, hands sticky and the front of his shirt stained and wet. He had seldomly felt so disgusted with himself.

When the grating of the floor began to hurt his knees, he finally pulled himself up.

/This is it. You've won. You've succeeded. If only you could see how gloriously you've succeeded. Master./ He thought, as he left the empty control room. /Was it worth it? Was it worth dying for?/

But there was no reply from any corner of his mind.

\- - -


End file.
